


Do Whatever Comes Naturally

by Godtiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Wingfic, Winglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godtiss/pseuds/Godtiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a man who holds himself as high and proud and unreachable as the distant stars, John is surprised to find that Sherlock Holmes is a man very much grounded to the earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Whatever Comes Naturally

“It’s instinct.”  
  
Sherlock tosses his head back and exhales sharply, dark hair splayed on the cushions behind him in a dramatic act of frustration. His pale eyes fix on John, cool and calculating and half-lidded in his accurate portrayal of a very put-upon man.  
  
“Surely there's a method of teaching someone. A way of explaining that would make it clear.”  
  
He’s trying to hide his dying curiosity behind his usual mask of exasperation towards those around him. Currently, that only happens to be John, who isn’t fooled by the detective’s petulance.  
  
“I could give you pointers, but I can’t actually teach you how to fly, Sherlock. It’s like learning to walk – your parents couldn’t coach you through it, but they could offer advice.”  
  
He doesn’t mention that usually parents help their children learn to fly, once their wings are fully developed. If Sherlock doesn’t know how, he’s either deleted it or there’s a personal reason he’s never learned. Either way, John won’t ask.  
  
“How long will it take?”  
  
The words are sharp, clipped – Sherlock has moved out of childish frustration and into scientific exploration. John’s mind stutters to a stop, backtracks for a moment, jumpstarts to keep up with the sudden shift.  
  
“There’s no way to be sure. Some people pick it up immediately, others will practice for days or weeks before they can even manage to glide ten feet without crashing.”  
  
Sherlock’s black wings twitch and stretch, arcing up over the detective’s head until they shine in the artificial light from the kitchen, hints of blue and silver caught in the barbs of the feathers.  
  
“Show me.”  
  
John shakes his head. He knew this was coming. “You know I can’t.”  
  
“The bullet that shattered your shoulder in Afghanistan also clipped the metacarpal bone of your wing.”  
  
It isn’t a question – still, John dignifies the observation with a small nod and an experimental stretch of his own ash-grey wings. The right extends in a fluid motion, the tips of his primaries brushing against the wall behind him. His left hardly makes it halfway before it gives a painful twinge – though not as painful as he’d been expecting. John forces it out as far as it will go, and finds that his range of motion has improved significantly despite the lack of use in the four years since the injury.  
  
Sherlock’s expression is curious. John rolls his eyes, but he’s no longer as inclined to say no to the detective.  
  
He misses flying- never thought he’d be able to after Afghanistan, where the doctors had informed him that he’d likely be a cripple for the rest of his life. He’d grown accustomed to keeping his wings pinned to his back and going through life with half-muttered apologies when he asks for something that is too high for him to reach without their aid.  
  
He won’t get his hopes up. But with enough time and effort, he doesn’t see why he wouldn’t be able to at least manage simple short-distance glides. And that's better than nothing at all.  
  
Of course, he won’t tell Sherlock until he’s tested it. If for no other reason than to avoid becoming an experiment.  
  
* * *  
  
Two months later finds Sherlock sulking on the couch, curled on his side with his wings draped to the floor where they twitch and shift and slide feathers against cool wood with soft sounds.  
  
John sighs and goes to make them both tea.  
  
Sherlock’s lessons aren’t going as well as the detective had expected. Or as well as John had expected either, if he were to be honest. Sherlock’s attention to details and his understanding of things far beyond normal comprehension apparently do not extend to flying. He can hardly manage even the shortest glide before his feet find the ground and he stumbles to a stop, growing more and more frustrated with his body’s inability to adapt.  
  
For a man who holds himself as high and proud and unreachable as the distant stars, John is surprised to find that Sherlock Holmes is a man very much grounded to the earth.  
  
John, however, is not. Not anymore.  
  
Where he thought he’d be lucky to glide again, he finds he can climb with wind currents, pivot and dive and so much more. His wing still aches, still gives a painful twinge every so often. But it is no longer disabling - merely a reminder that caution should be exercised as much as scarred muscle.  
  
Sherlock has no idea. Or if he does, he hasn’t said anything. With the detective’s mounting frustration, John thinks it unlikely that he wouldn’t.  
  
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” John promises, setting Sherlock’s tea next to him on the table before retreating to his chair. Black wings tense and coil, flaring wide and knocking the cup to the floor with a crash.  
  
“Or not.”  
  
Sherlock curls even tighter upon himself, dragging his knees to his chest with a loud huff. John finishes his tea in silence.  
  
That night is horrible. The keening, disorganized wails of the violin keep John awake for hours, staring at the ceiling of his room until, in the haze of exhaustion preceding sleep, he invents a plan that is desperate and danger and devious all in one.  
  
Sherlock will fly. Or he never will.  
  
The next morning, John leaves the flat at half eight, catching a cab to St. Bart’s without so much as a word to the lump of detective still curled on the couch in the same position John had left him in the night before, as though the violin had been merely a hallucination. Sherlock doesn’t question where he’s going, and John didn’t expect him to.  
  
Molly is working, but Mike isn’t. Still, John visits the mortician – brings her a coffee and sits with her as she sips at it, bright eyes on John as he explains his plan to her. Her sparrow-like wings flutter gently behind her in quiet interest until he’s finished and she nods, a small, sly smile playing on her lips.  
  
John takes it as approval and texts Sherlock.  
  
 _Meet me at Bart’s in half an hour._  
  
 _Why? SH_  
  
 _I want to have a look at your wings. Better equipment here. Can’t x-ray at home._  
  
 _Busy. SH_  
  
 _Molly said she’ll let you see the corpse just brought in. Possible murder victim. I just want an x-ray, Sherlock._  
  
 _Busy. SH_  
  
 _Sherlock._  
  
 _Busy, John. SH_  
  
 _Sherlock._  
  
 _BUSY. SH_  
  
 _Fine. SH_  
  
John gives him twenty minutes before he climbs to the roof and waits for the cab to deposit his flatmate on the pavement below. When it finally does, John dials the familiar number.  
  
“I’m here,” the voice on the other end cuts sharply. Even from a distance, John can see the way Sherlock holds his wings tense against his body. “Where are you?”  
  
“Up.”  
  
Most people would question the logic of that statement. Sherlock is _not_ most people. He stops, raises his head, finds John immediately.  
  
“Last I checked, the x-ray machines were on the third floor. Not the roof.”  
  
“I’m conducting an experiment. Humor me for a moment.”  
  
He hears the detective sigh on the other end of the line, imagines he can see the subtle rise and fall of shoulders and wings on the ground below.  
  
“I’m going to drop something. I want you to react. Don’t think, don’t process. Do whatever comes naturally.”  
  
He takes the silence for grudging acceptance. His keys go tumbling four stories down to the sidewalk below.  
  
Sherlock stands perfectly still. His eyes follow the path of the keys before looking back up at John.  
  
“Is that it?”  
  
“Not quite.”  
  
This time, it’s John’s phone that goes over the ledge. It falls. Splatters the sidewalk below with small electronic innards. Sherlock pockets his own, crosses his arms. He hasn’t moved.  
  
Obviously, keys and phones aren’t valuable enough to warrant a reaction from the still-sulking detective. John rolls his eyes and, quite without warning, pitches forward until he’s the one falling four stories.  
  
He hears a startled shout from the street below, hardly has time to process it before he feels arms around him to help break his fall. His wings snap open, his left protesting the sudden mistreatment but bending to his will as he gently lowers himself to the ground.  
  
Sherlock is glaring beside him. “What are you _doing?_ ”  
  
“Proving a point,” John replies, dusting himself off in an act of nonchalance. He gives Sherlock a sideway glance, lips curling into a smile.  
  
“What point could you possibly prove by throwing yourself off of a hospital rooftop?”  
  
Smile turns to grin. He can’t help it. The man prides himself in his observational skills, and yet Sherlock doesn’t even realize – “You flew. Told you it was instinct.”


End file.
